Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  Such ignorant bliss. “See to our worth.”

  The line began to move, and not wanting a reminder, Johnathan followed close on the heels of the two ragged men in front. The ship bore three short masts that unfurled the lion of Trecht upon her sails. It seemed to be well suited to wading the waters of the northern seas, though he knew little and less about boats. The crew shuffled him into the cargo holds from a short, roofed stairwell in the middle of the vessel, and chained him up to the rails; he could not move hands or feet more than a few inches.

  A dungeon that sways to and fro.

  Anastasia, for better or worse, was right beside him.

  No longer seeing a reason not to, he took a good look at her, and wished he had not. Stretched and thinning, her skin sagged off her face, and her blood had crusted where the knights landed their blows. What little hair remained was brittle and dry, and her complexion seemed as pale as death. In the days before her imprisonment, he would not have been remiss to call her comely.

  They have taken it from you. From all of us.

  He heard the heavy tread of footsteps, and turning towards the stair, he saw a large, hulking man: his bald head near brushed the roof of the hold, legs and arms seemed more like tree trunks, and a thick brown beard sagged against his chest. Unlike the men who counted and sorted, he wore fine black plants, and a black doublet trimmed with green silk.

  The captain.

  “Traitors, the lot of you,” the captain boomed; every word seemed like a shout. “The Voice has handed you over to my safe keeping. That is, until King Tristifer sinks his teeth into you, and not a one among you will like that much. Tailor or barkeep, serving wench or mason,” the captain seemed to take a moment to look towards Johnathan, “renowned knight or scholar, it makes no difference to me if you are alive or dead. Hah, prove to be a problem and I will say you were taken ill. Eat what we give you. Sleep when we tell you. And shut your traps.”

  The captain thundered up the stairs just as he had come, but the men remained, brandishing curved swords, some rolling their thumb along the edge. When their backs were turned, Johnathan leaned towards Anastasia and whispered, “Be strong.”

  “Wh-what do they w-want with us?”

  “Tributes for their fields, or worse. Now be strong and be quiet.”

  When the ship finally shoved off, he took a moment to look at the other guests aboard, never glancing too long, always aware of where the guards were. If the trades the captain professed were true or not, he had no way to know. There seemed to be an even amount of men and women: most were skinny, though a couple of the men were well-muscled.

  I must look like death to them.

  They were all dressed in rags or had torn garments that may have had bright colours once, or were drab and bland. All of them had a resigned look to them: sad eyes, faces marred with anguish.

  At least no one is sea sick—yet.

  The guards freed his right hand and shoved a small bowl of gruel at him, uncaring if it spilled. It looked disgusting, though thick, and not runny. He pushed the bowl to his lips, and even though it felt like a worm was crawling down his throat, he greedily emptied his serving. Anastasia ate most of hers, but she looked pained by every swallow. A man across from him paled with every mouthful.

  That will not stay down. It did not, nor did it land in the bowl. The guards laughed and taunted, leaving him in the mess.

  The nights were restless for Johnathan, and he suspected that these men and women were not imprisoned long.

  More like they were torn from their homes.

  They fidgeted much, cried out from their nightmares. That earned them the flat side of a sword. Bloodied and torn faces only discouraged slumber, not the pained exclamations.

  The second night some slept, though most were awake. The guards were away somewhere, likely deep in drinks. It was at least an hour since anyone cried out. A balding man beside Johnathan struggled to stay awake. “A baker?” he asked quietly, leaning over until the iron scraped against his skin.

  “Only the best bread from the south of the city. What would you have been?”

  “A knight once. Now I do not know what I am. It does not seem to matter.”

  “That is where you are wrong, ser.” Johnathan protested the title, but the baker waved his hand and continued. “What you are can never be taken from you. They may beat us bloody, turn us into slaves, but we are who we are, and naught can change that. We will be free one day, I will find an oven, and you your sword, ser.”

  Johnathan thought the notion terribly pleasing, but woefully naïve. “What do you know of bondage?”

  “Enough that it terrifies me. But some things I will not let them take, no matter what they do.”

  Ser Johnathan Falenir. Lord Protector of the Theocracy of Dalia, sworn servant of Mother God, though I do not believe. I survived the Calamity and remained my own man. I served the Voice loyally, counseled her, and for that service, sentenced to die in these depths by Father Stephen Francis, Counsel of Faith, Poisoner of Mother God.

  He knew the baker was not wrong.

  The days came and went, and Johnathan learned that the vessel was not unlike Dale’s lower dungeons. There was no torch light to signal dusk and dawn. Instead, there was the sound of jovial boastings and drunken brawls from above that signaled dusk, and the booming commands of the captain that gave way to dawn. The cog rarely, if ever, halted its journey up the coast.

  We must have crossed into the Northlands by now.

  Most of his companions held up well, though some better than others. The man who was ill the first night had near emptied up his stomach after every meal. The captain had come himself on the third night out from port, and ordered him thrown into the sea. Apparently, he was worried about the health of the cargo, or more likely, King Tristifer’s satisfaction. Others were battered and bruised, had sprained and broken bones, and lost some teeth, but were very much alive. The guards had beat them more for sport than discipline.

  We will make it.

  Johnathan guessed it was the fourth night out from port. A new set of guards had come down from above with the evening’s gruel. They were soaked to the bone, puddles followed wherever they went, and a howling wind curved down into the hold. The guards were more sour than usual, most of the gruel was upended on the floor, leaving most of the men and women without food. At least, those who did not mop it up off the floor with their fingers.

  “All hands, to deck!”

  That was the captain’s booming voice. The guards dropped whatever remained in a slimy heap, and ran up the stairs. The wood began to creak before long, and Johnathan heard the wind scream into the sails above.

  “Hold it down! We cannot lose it!”

  “More! We need more!”

  “It’s only the piss of their Mother God. Hold it down!”

  A deafening crack of wood cut through the chatter.

  “The main mast, we lost it!!”

  There was a second, terrible cracking sound, followed by the by resounding booms that the prisoners felt as the hull rattled and shook.

  “You were right, Johnathan. As good as dead,” Anastasia said weakly. She repeated it again when he looked into her eyes.

  She’s gone.

  Ser Johnathan Falenir. Lord Protector of the Theocracy of Dalia, sworn servant of Mother God, though I do not believe. I survived the Calamity and remained my own man. I served the Voice loyally, counseled her, and for that service, sentenced to die in these depths by Father Stephen Francis, Counsel of Faith, Poisoner of Mother God.

  He repeated his prayer over and over, blocking out all the sounds in the realm: the cries and screams of the prisoners, the shouts of the captain and crew, the creaking and snapping of wood, the thunderous slams of water against the hull.

  “Hard to stern! Hard to stern!”

  The hull on the far side was pierced by a spire of hard, wet rock. The rail broke as it skewered the entire length of the ship. The sea swallowed half of his companions.
r />   Ser Johnathan Falenir. Lord Protector of the Theocracy of Dalia, sworn servant of Mother God, though I do not believe. I survived the Calamity and remained my own man. I served the Voice loyally, counseled her, and for that service, sentenced to die in these depths by Father Stephen Francis, Counsel of Faith, Poisoner of Mother God.

  The prayer was important. Though the baker had spoken of men, Johnathan resolved the sea would not take who he was.

  The port side railing broke off, and he remembered who he was as the sea swallowed him.

  Chapter Four

  Royal Demands

  Lutessa watched as the trading cog vanished to a speck on the horizon.

  The captains of the Faithsworn began shouting commands, and the sea of white swords became more than small waves breaking against the shore. If any ship sailed near, they would see no more than sea gulls perched on grey stone.

  Save for this red gull.

  Prince Adonis Marcanas did not speak when the ship sailed away, or when her knights had left but a token guard.

  He knows how hard this is for me. “What was her name again?” Lutessa asked without looking towards him.

  The prince ran his thumb and forefinger down his chin, as if he was remembering some insignificant detail. “Ah, she would be the Blackbird’s Berth. A new ship with an old history. Three generations they tell me, and never sunk once. My brother will keep them well. It is a kindness that they will not soon forget.”

  “They would have been just as well in my keeping.”

  Prince Adonis’ mirth belied little. “You have a good heart, but a woman’s heart all the same. My kingly brother is far away, but not blind. Prisoners of the Faith have an uncanny knack of being pardoned, and put amidst affairs they should have no part in. King Tristifer will set this to rights, you will see.”

  The Mother’s Pilgrim had said much of the same to her. Our work has just begun. The king in the west must be sated; a single stone is too little for him. We must keep our secrets, but give little things that seem overlarge to us. Let the realm settle, and then we will move against them.

  “I defer to your judgment.” Lutessa intoned.

  This prince smiled and edged closer. “We have had word from the east.”

  “It is done, then?”

  “Little enough,” Prince Adonis pulled Lutessa close. She subtlety shook her head, and the Faithsworn stood down. “They did not see our fleet until we were burning their ships. It seemed almost too simple.”

  “Islanders are ill-bred for war,” Lutessa confided, trying to wriggle free, but to no success. “Raiders, smugglers, thieves. I will not mourn them.”

  “If you had seen—”

  “I will not mourn them.”

  Prince Adonis released her suddenly. “My brother shall return before dusk. There will be more to tell, then, I promise. ‘Til then, be well.”

  The prince departed and called to one of the Faithsworn, who followed as he walked through the hidden passage at the rear of the port. It was a slanted, but straight climb to an unused storage compartment in the rear of the Cathedral of Light.

  I shall walk that road, but not yet.

  Lutessa felt a stirring in her breast.

  The time has passed for acquiesance, the soothing voice said.

  A warm hand overlapped hers on the wooden rail. She had gripped the wood hard, but now it was relaxed, as a flood of warmth suffused her body. Beside her stood a man in loose-fitting brown robes who called himself the Mother’s Pilgrim. Gabriel’s Gift—the Spherule of Divinity at her breast—brought him forth: an avatar of the divine, and an ardent son of Mother God. He possessed soft features with comforting eyes and a full mouth. A deep-seated lust stirred inside her: she wanted naught more than to entwine her fingers in his. Suppressing the urge, she reminded herself that it was to the Voice he had come, not Lutessa.

  “They will not like it much,” she admitted. “As long as their fleet surrounds us, there is little we can do.”

  The Faithsworn were no more than three feet from the dais, and did not hear a word. When the Mother’s Pilgrim came near, the air shimmered, and a soft, barely audible hum fell on the breeze. What it was baffled her, but none heard aught but silence, nor could they lay eyes upon the divine. It is the only time I can truly speak my mind.

  Not every war is won with swords, the Mother’s Pilgrim soothed.

  War. There was no uglier word in the common tongue than war to her. War had a dear cost that rent the realm asunder. Though orphaned and raised by the Faith, she had come to love a family not bound by blood. Memories are all that remains.

  Anastasia was her mother by a bond that felt as real as if she was her issue. In her youth, Lutessa had resented the old woman, blamed her for the solitude; it was a kind of pig-headed stubbornness that erected a near impregnable wall of anger and sorrow. Yet as the years passed, the warmth and care was so enveloping, that the brick and mortar which had once seemed so stout, had turned to jelly. By life and faith, Anastasia gave Lutessa everything that she was; all for the love of a poor child, abandoned and alone. That had meant something for so long, not unremembered, but the trials of the Voice were ne’er about love. War made the choice that lead to this day.

  Rachel Du’vron was as close to a sister as Lutessa could ever hope to have. Meeting as children in Truftan Monastery—that cold and desolate stone tower where the young learned the ways of the Faith. Loneliness had brought Rachel close, but love of the Faith sustained a close friendship. Lutessa entered the priesthood at a mere seventeen seasons, and had already written several treatises on long lost lore of Gabriel and his followers. Never letting Rachel go by the wayside, Lutessa ruled Dalia with her, and all the faithful after High Priestess Gloria’s sudden passing. Yet the path afterwards was that of war with an imminently hostile Isilian Imperium. Rachel was among the dead, skewered by eastern steel.

  Then there was Ser Elin Durand. In the days before Trecht’s invasion—nearly five years to the day—he was Lutessa’s knight in shining armour. Once, she thought of him as a brother, but he bestirred more than that in her. All such feelings changed at the end of that war: the choices she made, the unutterable, unspeakable sin that forced her to excommunicate him, the croaking and cawing of a priesthood that never thought to understand her heart. Years later, need compelled his return against the Isilians, and though she did not intend for him to set foot on holy land again, she grieved for the loss of who he was: the noble, stalwart knight. I dressed him up, then tore him down, like some unmerciful beast.

  War had ripped her family away. War had changed them as much as it did her.

  “Must it come to that—war?” she asked

  It will not be long before they discover the stone that was promised is not alone, the Mother’s Pilgrim replied. The son will be like the father, even if he does not know it. Trecht or Dalia: they cannot stand together, nor will one countenance the survival of the other. The Faith will—must—endure. That is Mother’s wish.

  “Even if the faithful are not ready?”

  Mother would not wish it if they were not.

  “May Mother God’s will be done.”

  She no longer heard the tantalizing humming, the faintest whisper, nor did the air shimmer. She only felt a cold breeze that reminded her who she was. Four of the Faithsworn remained, shuffling their feet in impatience. “We return,” she announced.

  Two of the knights went before her, the others from the rear. None of the Faithsworn that Counsel Stephen Francis left behind were known to her, nor did she have any inclination to learn their names. Silent, near mutes when they stood in their crystalline armour, their replies to questions were either a nod or shake of the head. Once or twice they would talk amongst themselves; their speech was crude and rough, lacking the articulation of even common tradesmen. The four who escorted her today were balding, if not bald, with narrow eyes and rough-hewn faces.

  Lutessa walked through the dark, mortared path. The ascent turned out to be more tiring than th
e descent, but she thought that was due to the pace she demanded. The natural harbour was at the far end of the walled city, away to the south, with the cathedral at its northern end. It felt very much like walking the immense city from end to end—as a young priestess, she did the feat once or twice, leisurely wasting a couple hours of afternoon sun—but this was like the city was atop a high hill.

  Or worse, a mountain.

  She called for a halt when the path widened enough for eight to sit across, before it curved to a slightly steeper incline. As if the knights had the exact same thought, they stood side-by-side along the eastern wall, right hand upon the hilts of their swords, awaiting orders. She sighed audibly, leaned against the western wall, staring inquisitively towards these mute men, but they could have been made of stone for all the difference it made.

  After a few hundred paces, she came to a locked door. She walked into a dry storage room that was stacked to the roof with crates and barrels—dry berries, wine, assorted fruit, and roots, she knew—and quickly exited to the heart of the Faith.

  Tall but slim fluted pillars stood amid the intersections of the hallways as she crisscrossed her way towards the west. She passed idle priests and solemn Faithsworn before emerging into the widened Hall of Prayer.

  She took a moment to look towards the overlarge statue of Mother God on the dais that fronted long rows of pew benches. No priest offered a sermon at this hour, but many supplicants kneeled in prayer, asking for hope and guidance.

  More than there has ever been. It should please me, but it is harrowing.

  When Overlord Damian Dannars had come to the heart of the city, the people were suddenly much more pious than Lutessa remembered.

  I wonder if there will be any impiety left when the ships return. She knew it was a thought that a high priestess should never have, but little made sense anymore.

  Shorn of the guard, she walked twenty paces to the south and ascended a steep set of winding stairs to the upper halls. Even though the Hall of Prayer had a tall, domed ceiling, the Hall of Faith was far taller, if but narrower. The fluted pillars were part of the walls itself, interspersed with murals of the works of all those who served as high priestess before her. They were mostly of kindness and generosity, preaching and salvation, all but for Justine the Indomitable, the first woman to carry the title. Over three hundred years ago, in the time of the prophet Gabriel, she had taken her great sword, carved out Dalia itself, and threw back all who would do them harm. Those exploits fronted the Chamber of Judgment. For all the women who sat the Crystal Throne of Mother God, it served as a reminder for who they were and what they may be required to do.